Page 4 of Corrupting Lily

“I’m sorry about her. She should know her place,” Basilio says, once again running his hand over his hair and schooling his features. This little display has been eye-opening. Whoever Daisy is, she has managed to rile Camille up. There was no doubt about the jealousy evident in her little tirade a minute ago. And Basilio’s reaction had just further piqued my interest.

“This girl you are hiding. She does the books?” I ask casually, my gaze intently scrutinizing his face for any sign of a reaction. He looks uncomfortable but tries to conceal that feeling.

“Yes, and she works as a waitress. But she is no one you need to be concerned about. She is a nobody.” Basilio’s words suggest that she is far from a nobody. He wouldn’t bother trying to convince me of this if she were.

“I decide who concerns me. I want to meet her. Now.” My tone conveys the finality of my words as I lean back further, waiting to see if he will be foolish enough to argue. I had killed family for less. As seconds tick away, I watch him struggle internally. He’s reluctant to call her, but if he doesn’t, he risks losing his life. Most people wouldn't take that kind of gamble when their safety is at stake. I never accept "no" for an answer, and I always get what I want. It’s just how Ioperate.

I can see the moment of defeat flicker in his eyes as he reluctantly takes out his phone and dials a number.

“Daisy, please come down.” His eyes remain locked on mine, and I think he might challenge me, but then he looks away.

Hanging up, we wait, the tension thick in the air now.

Suddenly, I’m eager to see this little flower responsible for this moment of excitement in my otherwise uneventful day.

Chapter 3

Lily

Saying I was relieved to be called downstairs was an understatement. However short-lived that sentiment might be. Usually, the admin office next to Basilio's much larger one was a place of solitude, but not today. Camille had stormed into it minutes ago, absolutely furious, and even if I wasn’t the cause, it never ended well for me. This time I was and her murmured words about me being a suck up bitch were followed up with a surprisingly hard slap across my face. I could still feel the sting on my cheek minutes later, sure that if I looked in a mirror, a hand mark would be there. A small, clearly female-shaped one. Shit.

This was a first. Usually, she verbally abused me, never physically. However, I couldn’t honestly say I was surprised. This is how things typically progressed, except she wasn’t apologizing afterwards.

I stand in the hallway, taking a minute to compose myself. Basilio’s tone conveyed urgency, leaving me with no time to assess the severity of the mark on my cheek. Hoping to hide any redness, I brush the hairof my black bob-cut wig forward. It would have to do.

Now that I am out of that situation, the one I am walking into settles front and center. With every step, my stomach tightens with anxiety. The important guests are still here, so why am I being summoned? Do they know who I am? Do they knowhim? What if they were sent here to take me back? The anxiety I'm feeling makes me nauseous, and by the time I step foot back into the club, my mouth is as dry as a desert as I take a large gulp of smoke-filled air. It's like being strangled by a smelly invisible hand.

I spot Basilio at a private booth near the back, and as I make my way toward him, I notice the black-suited men from earlier scattered around the room, none of them paying attention to the strippers.

Basilio’s gaze locks onto mine before sliding over to my cheek—anger ignites, his eyes turning to slits as he stands up, brushing the strands of hair aside so that he can get a better look.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Basilio’s harsh tone conveys his fury.

Shit. My eyes flare as I consider what to say. Being truthful was absolutely out of the question.

“I tripped,” I lie, my gaze dropping to the floor in case he sees the deception in my eyes. There was no way I would pin this on Camille. It was already bad when she was here and Basilio wasn’t around. Imagine if I admitted it was her.

“Do you always let your whore beat your staff?” The words themselves, while surprising, are not what draw my gaze from the ground to see who has spoken them. It is the sound of them that has hooked my attention. While most men have a naturally deep voice, this man’s voice was deeper and huskier than any I had heard before. One of those voices that, once you've heard it, you can distinguish from a million others. Every time. While the words were spoken casually and quietly,the space around them swam with command. Authority painted every letter and licked every vowel as it fell from his lips.

My gaze meets one that reveals nothing. The same man who captivated me earlier is stealing my breath again as he sits casually back in the booth. One arm rests over the backrest, while the other rests on his thigh. The movement of his tattooed index finger tapping rhythmically up and down on his knee draws my attention.

I take everything in, my eyes greedy for every detail. No one has intrigued me like this before. The cut on his knuckle, barely visible and covered in ink. The manicured nails, which are deceptive, for this man's hands have worked. The roughness of the skin on his fingers gives it away. The veins on the tops of his hands, which allude to a strength that ordinary hands do not possess. His broad forearms, which meet even broader biceps, with the material of his suit wrapped around them like the wrapping of a present. Because God only knows that what lies beneath is a treat. My gaze drifts up, latching onto the open collar of his shirt where more tattoos cover the skin, the one button almost teasing for the rest to be opened. I blink several times, the inane thought of how an open button can elicit such feelings floating through my mind and banishing the fear and anxiety that were, and still should be, there. Since when has one open button been such a turn-on?

He growls. Growls? It is the only way I can describe the utterly guttural sound that draws my attention to eyes that stare at me with a combination of amusement and, dare I say, desire? No, as quickly as I think I see that, it is gone, replaced with boredom.

An illusion. He may appear bored, relaxed even, but I can sense that if necessary, he could be out of that seat and in front of me faster than I could blink—no small feat, given his size. I estimate him to be at least six feet four inches tall and around two hundred thirty pounds.Besides his hands, his neck up to his jawline is covered in tattoos, the ink fading into his black dress shirt. Black shirt, black ink, black hair, black stubble. This man is made of shadows.

“Daisy,” Basilio snaps my name, returning my attention back to him. “Did Camille do this to you?” he asks, softly touching my face. The contrast between his touch and his tone leaves me confused. Is he angry with me or with her?

I shake my head, not liking to lie verbally.

“You shouldn’t lie,il mio fiorellino. It will make your petals wilt.” My eyes dart over to the man once again, his voice like a magnet. Italian. While his accent isn’t pronounced when he speaks English, it is noticeable when he speaks Italian.

“Sit down. Both of you.” His gaze remains locked with mine as he issues his command.

Basilio’s hand drops from my cheek, the warmth that was there only registering as gone once he sits. The fact that he obeys this man's orders without hesitation tells me all I need to know. Basilio is not the boss right now, and I’m not surprised. This man could walk into any room and own it with his overpowering presence alone. It is as suffocating as the smoke in the air.

Realizing this and that I am still standing, I look around the table, trying to decide where to sit. The man’s scrutinizing gaze makes me blush and squirm, the heat in the club suddenly intensifying.

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